


MOMENTOUS

by break-beat (breakbeatTF)



Series: ANTHOLOGY [5]
Category: Japanese Mythology
Genre: Demon/Human Relationships, Demons, Gen, Harringrove for BLM, Japan, Japanese Character(s), Japanese Culture, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Protests, Riots, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakbeatTF/pseuds/break-beat
Summary: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? When people need a saving grace, a lone warrior becomes the call. Oni TF oneshot.
Series: ANTHOLOGY [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771234
Kudos: 2





	MOMENTOUS

**Author's Note:**

> Can we be free?
> 
> Art © [Daniel Martos](https://dribbble.com/shots/5737459-Hannya)

"Stand your fuckin' ground, people!"

**"Push 'em back!"**

**"This is** ** **what democracy looks like!"** **

"Show me what democracy looks like!"

**"This is what democracy looks like!"**

The response has been worse. Reports from other cities have only told me that they're bolting down harder and arresting more. Trying to keep ahold of what little left they can grasp.

**"Push 'em back!"**

The irony. The people who used to protect are the enemy.

"Show me what democracy looks like!"

**"This is what democracy looks like!"**

They gathered forces and mobilized a few hours ago. We've been gathered for longer. They stormed through us with ease, thanks to flashbangs and tear gas. People fled quickly. But not us. They managed to block the rest of us off from the interstate. It was a diversion tactic, and they were able to cut cleanly through the middle of the crowd to separate us.

"Hands up!"

**"Don't shoot!"**

The people are getting restless. You wouldn't suspect it at first, but if you've stood here for as long as I have, you can tell when voices begin to falter and shake. A storm is surely brewing. I can taste the tension hanging in the air. Maybe it's the leftover gas, singeing my nose. I'm not sure anymore. It doesn't matter anymore.

"Hands up!"

**"Don't shoot!"**

**"Push them back!"**

Our cameras protect us. Our masks protect us. Our group protects us. Our actions define us. We stand. 

"What do we want?"

**"Justice!"**

"When do we want it?"

**"Now!"**

"Yes, absolutely, that's spot on, James. Crowds have been forming in this city only over the past 2 days, and, as we can clearly see here, they have already started mobilizing and forming lines, with guns aimed and shields deployed. They have been attempting to direct and maintain the crowds for the past hour now, and we have seen and already recorded the use of tear gas. Despite them successfully dividing and intervening into the crowd, we can still see that the vocal remains are still going strong. There are multiple signs being held, we have seen people pouring milk on the faces of those who have been stung by the tear gas, and, oh... Can we get the camera on this? Yes, we have a man approaching with what appears to be a milk carton in his hands, leading the chants that can be heard from the group."

"What do we want?"

**"Justice!"**

"When do we want it?"

**"Now!"**

That man they're describing is batshit. He stumbled his way into the gap between us and them and is holding his hands up. He's puffing out his chest like he thinks he's intimidating them. All he's doing is testing their trigger finger. He's pouring milk over his face like it's gonna do anything before they start firing. 

And they're gonna. I can see it in their eyes, even if it's hard to tell. Their guns aren't moving, they're perfectly still, waiting for the moment to strike. But you always should trust your gut instinct; they're scared out of their minds. They have to be. One of them from behind the line brings out a megaphone.

**"We have been authorized to use force. Step away from the-"**

"Fuck you!" "What do we want?"

Looks like we aren't the only ones who are restless.

**"Justice!"**

"Keep moving!"

" **Step away from the interstate. We have been authorized to use force, and will use it if necessary."**

"Stand your ground!"

"Thank you. We have just gotten word that they are now pushing forward towards the mass, likely to keep them from reaching and blocking the nearby interstate again. Let's get a move on, crew. Um, reports have also been shown that more reinforcements are coming later tonight to help maintain the peace. Alright, keep moving, they're still pushing, keep following me. The people have begun falling back into one group, and, as we can see, the crowd tonight is particularly resistant. They are moving very little, and have continued to shout- Huh? H-Hey! Press! Press! Don't shoot! We're press-

"Fuck! Jesus Christ! Yeah, I just got hit. I have just been struck in the arm by a bullet. Hold on... Alright, alright, step back, step back, crew. Uh, it seems like they have been made aware of the group's civil disobedience, and are now attempting to push into the crowd again, this time firing rubber bullets. The time is now 6:53 PM, just about an hour before the new legal curfew is set to be in effect, but we still will be live on air during these curfew hours to keep all of you watching at home informed."

People are now scrambling and scurrying away, diverging from the group. Making us smaller. Making us easier to control. Even the guy in front of all of us ran back into the crowd. 

But still, we stand. Slowly backing up, the front line of us still have their signs up, a couple of them retreating back into the mass of people after getting shot at. And I'm right here with them.

"When do we want-"

Then they start deploying the tear gas. It's not exactly hard to see the blazing, orange tint of fire that can only come from a launcher. A familiar thunk of a canister breaking the sound barrier. The clank of it landing on asphalt. The buzz of it leaking. The hiss of an explosion of fire and brimstone. They fire directly in front of us, trying to get us drawn and quartered. 

"Run!"

We all start backing up quickly, more people running. More cracks through the air as more bullets are fired towards us, another tear gas canister launch. It lands near us. A person sprints forward to it, through the hellfire of bullets, and swings back his foot, kicking the tin and returning it back to the cops. Fucking idiot, provoking them into more violence. As the third one was launched, though, a cry breaks our short silence. Looking over, a girl, no older than a preteen, was crying. 

What the fuck was a kid doing at a place like this here? She covers her face, even though her eyes were already closed. She was catching gas in her eyes. A hand grabs her arm, and a guy brings her in close, wrapping himself around her, trying to body-block the rest of the gas. It didn't work, the gas just seeped into both his and her eyes. More bullets are fired off, one landing straight into his backside. The third canister clinks against the road to my side, spewing the noxious gas.

Need to do something. Shit. Think. Can't kick it back to them again, that'll set off a fuckin' war. I'll be blinded like those two if I step in to pull them out. Shit. There's not much left to do for them. 

But there is one last option for 'em.

Running to the third can myself, I take off my shirt. Decency be damned, a kid's on the line. I wrap and coil it around my hand. Deep breath. I bend my knees, crouching, leaning over the tin. Hand on the roadside, hand above the sparking canister.

"What the hell is that guy doing?!"

Three.

Two.

One.

Searing metal. A single hand grips the capsule, the other holding me up against the asphalt. One knee goes up. Other knee follows.

"He's holding the line... People, he's holding the line!"

Pushing and lifting my arm off the ground.

"What the hell?" "Fuck that, they're coming!" "Keep moving!"

Bending upright. Facing them. Staring them. Fading sunlight glares into my eyes, the silhouettes of the force against us cut through as sharp as the sunrays. 

"Fuck. You," I say.

A lone ranger fire in retaliation at me. It doesn't matter. The rubber bullet strikes and bounces off my chest, falling down to my side. Lowering his gun, the adversary looks on, confused as to how I was unfazed by such mortal weapons. Gazing back down at the canister, toxic smoke pouring and escaping out between cloth fibers and fingers. I was going to throw it away to the side, but it just seems so _useful_ now.

"What the fuck is he thinking?" "Hell yeah!" "Let's go!"

The tides, the people's will, and I were all beginning to change.

The metal casting of the canister morphs and stretches like putty. The tear gas clears, as it filled with the dense, heavy iron. The can, shifting around in my own hands, stretched out into a rod. It extends, longer and longer, further and further, forming a staff. Cone-like spikes grow out and dot the weapon’s landscape, as the metal stretches itself into a ring below my grip on the club. 

Those bastards were shooting into a crowd with kids in it. We will not be silenced. We will stand.

My shirt, still wrapped around my hand, shrinks. It soon becomes a thin strip of clothing. As it changed materials, becoming much less brittle and more elastic, it diverges from a black cloth to a white gauze. The bandage wraps itself around my hand, covering my entire palm. Perfect for wielding my club.

I approach them. They raise their guns back up.

A couple of blinks as a dull numbness overcame them. The line of our enemies fades into blurriness, before coming back, sharper and clearer than ever. The glint reflecting off their barrels.

They’re growing terrified. They should be.

Tingling as my ears began to shift as well. They stretch outwards, gaining width. They flare skyward, tapering off with a pointed edge, gaining a crimson red hue. All the better to hear with. 

The people take notice of my lead and power.

"Show me what democracy looks like!"

As the same red spread throughout my nose, my tongue rolls along the back of my new, sharper fangs. My canines push outward, expanding out to two horn-like tusks. The menacing spikes jut out, curving and circling inwards.

**"This is what democracy looks like!"**

Two bumps at the top of my head form, both atop my changed eyes. These blossom into horns, rising higher and higher. They bend and weave into intricate designs, sharp enough to stab.

"Show me what democracy looks like!" 

Soon enough, my hair changes to bleached white, pure as moonlight. It straightens out, frizzling at the ends. It lengthens, becoming wispy and airy, flowing upwards at the slightest breeze. It extends further down, reaching my waist. My nose turns a deep red, as well as the rest of my face. The change spreads to my neck, widening and lengthening it. I can feel the muscles rippling from just it alone. They look ever so smaller as my skull enlarges.

**"This is what democracy looks like!"**

As my chest continued to swell, the crimson coloration seeped down, covering the front and back of my chest. As the color shifted my skin, pecs form and mold out of my chest. They swell, growing more powerful with muscles. Abs soon dominate my stomach, a testament to my strength. Veins bulge and contort as hardened, war-ready sinews bulge out further.

"Keep moving!"

Shoulders widen, blessed by the same power, and develop and stretch tendons beyond human comprehension. But I was much more than human now. Arms buckle as the biceps gain more mass, growing and swelling with veins. My hands enlarge as well, gripping the club with more finesse; nails sharpen and elongate out to dagger-like lengths. Perfect for slicing.

"Stand your ground!"

My legs shift, turning to the blood red. My thighs broaden, threatening to match the same divine, raw, unrivaled muscular strength of my arms. The enemy appears minuscule as my legs stretch upwards. My knees widen outward, stretching and tearing the sides of my pants. It rips apart, the bottom half falling away in tatters as we march on. My growing feet push against the fabric of my shoes, but it is simply no match. Claws from my nails burst cleanly through them, slicing holes open as my enlarging, red feet splitting the sinews of shoe leather apart. The searing asphalt means nothing when you are powerful.

Keep moving.

Lastly, my torn pants turn, morphing from denim to tiger skin. The cotton threads change to raw, woolly hide. Striped black cut through new orange, as the blue faded away. The leather belt around my waist transforms into a sturdy rope; the latch at the front is replaced with a knot. The leather material becomes coarse, rough fibers as the thin strip of cloth grows, rounding out into a thread. A tiger fur cloth surrounded and covered me now. Suiting for someone as dexterous and impeding as I.

Stand your ground.

As my growth finishes, my club and I easily tower over them, gazing down to their feeble line. My change complete, our steadfast will blazing with flame and cries, we march on. The fate of these people is my pride now. The fate of these people is my duty now. And I will protect them.

And we will stand.

Keep moving.

Stand your ground.

Keep moving.

Stand your ground.

**Author's Note:**

> <https://twitter.com/rhettmc/status/1267231239641022464>
> 
> BLM.  
> Keep moving.  
> Stand your ground.


End file.
